


Red Steam

by mandoinevarro



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Don't care, F/M, don't know where he is at the time of the events, sorry about ignoring baby yoda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23114536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandoinevarro/pseuds/mandoinevarro
Summary: Visiting the Twi'lek healing baths hadn't seemed like a terrible choice. It's not until the thick fog starts clouding your judgment and tempting you with sinful musings about a certain Mandalorian that you think you should've maybe stayed at the Crest.Tumblr: @mandoinevarro
Relationships: Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 21
Kudos: 344





	1. Chapter 1

The Twi’lek healing baths aren’t exactly a brothel.

Although “healing baths” is definitely a euphemism used to deviate the attention from some of the obscure services offered inside the tall building in the outskirts of Nevarro, its name very literally delivers on its premise. There are actual healing baths inside, along with other relaxation chambers, and the most erotic service you can get from an employee is probably just an oiled massage, but you’re not stupid enough to think that the droopy-eyed visitors you saw leaving through the front door had those drowsy smiles permanently glued on their faces from a particularly satisfying massage.

Still, it’s not a brothel. At least not the section you’re in.

The steaming chamber is a manmade cave completely crafted from some smooth black mineral that you’ve never seen before. Unlike other rocks, its surface exudes the opposite temperature of its surroundings, so the one you’re sitting on right now is frosty against the backs of your legs. Apart from a long bench made with the same material that surrounds all four walls and a tall rectangular table in the middle of the room, there isn’t much of a decoration inside. There’s one door, no windows, and a single grating on the floor from which more sweetly scented steam gushes out when the old one starts dissipating. The only source of light is bright red; it dyes the vapor floating around and your dripping skin crimson.

Some of the women around you are chatting quietly, but most of them sleep with the light fabric everyone was given beforehand covering their naked bodies.

You sigh. You really needed this.

Mando’s bounty is apparently hiding somewhere in the maze of steam and pools and mysterious rooms that make up the healing baths. It’s supposed to be an easy enough job: The son of a wealthy Rebel official had…dishonored a high society girl who was already engaged and skipped town. His own family put the bounty on him. All Mando has to do is shake him up a little to teach him a lesson and deliver him to his father. It isn’t the kind of job he’d usually take, but the money’s good and the risk low, and he can’t really afford to reject sources of income with an extra mouth to feed.

A woman walks out of the steaming cave, and most of the vapor streams out of the room, which lowers the temperature of the chamber but increases the one under your fingertips.

You tagged along because you figured some rich brat lounging in the more questionable corners of the local business wouldn’t be too dangerous. Plus, you’re sick of the Razor Crest’s shower, whose only temperatures are cold and fucking freezing.

You honestly can’t remember the last time you were allowed to relax for such a long time.

The steam rises again, and you swear it’s a little thicker than before. You’re sweating more. Your skin tingles.

To your left, a female Togruta and a woman are talking on a corner, a little too close to each other. The Togruta is murmuring on the other woman’s ear and brings a hand down to caress her knee. You only catch a word: “upstairs”. She nods slowly and takes her companion’s hand. They stand up and leave the room, the vapor following them out.

You haven’t even been here that long. The grating has only emitted new vapor three or four times, but your mind is already slipping. The mist is heavy on your shoulders and its odor lovelier every time you inhale. You could swear it started smelling of wild flowers, yet now it reminds you of burnt wood and rain. Of metal. Of him.

Fuck.

You throw your head back, bumping it against the cold stone.

You’ve been torturing yourself with daydreams of the Mandalorian for months now. They were gentle at first, only innocent musings about him that you entertained because they made you feel giddy and naive. Could he ever see you as anything more than an employee? Could it ever develop into something more intimate? You started wondering how he’d move his lips against yours; how he’d hold your face in his large palm.

It was all still chaste enough, but that didn’t last very long. You see him every day, hear his every breath, grunt, and dramatic sigh. You study the way he moves, his powerful build, the carefulness of his arms when he cradles his son and his violence when manhandling his prisoners. It all got crammed inside you and, soon enough, your fantasies turned darker. Could he ever see you as a woman? Would he claim you, if given the opportunity?

You usually weed these fantasies before they can take root. You’re painfully aware that you can’t have him. He’s a serious person—consumed entirely by his child, his Creed, and his work. More importantly, he’s a good man who’s always been courteous to you and doesn’t deserve to be at the receiving end of your filthy yearnings.

And yet, right now…right here, where the women’s mumbling sounds like whispered confessions and his scent is crowding you and you have to work for every single breath you take and your better judgement stayed at the Crest…right now, you don’t stop them from coming. And, fuck, you know he’s here somewhere, hunting for his prey. What if he found you? What would you be willing to—

A loud crash and a man’s shriek interrupt your train of thought.

The remaining women in the chamber exchange panicked stares and, as if bouncing on springs, suddenly sprint out of the room, taking most of the steam with them. The screaming continues, along with a few grunts and some bangs. A couple of doors slam shut.

You melt further into your seat. It’s Mando. He’s found the quarry.

The brat’s apparently putting up a fight, because the sounds of chaos keep coming from different parts of the building. You feel completely relaxed.

An exhalation of the lattice makes up for the lost mist. Droplets condense on your flesh and mix with your sweat. You raise your wrist to your nose and—sure enough—his smell is there, but now it’s mingled with yours, and the blend creates an addictive aroma. Is this what it would smell like, if you two ever had an encounter? Would he be willing to bare his skin to you and allow the moisture of your bodies to blend into one? Or would he fuck you clothed and urgently, barricaded by his armor?

A blaster goes off, and something plummets into the floor, but you’re a lot more focused on the way the flimsy cloth you were provided with is sticking to your chest. It’s soaked at this point and doing very little to cover you, so you lift a heavy arm to work it off your body. Your bare ass is warm when in presses back down on the bench, which makes the stone cooler. You try to imagine it’s beskar.

You know you’re losing it when you start feeling sorry for the quarry. He’s probably just some rich idiot who was looking for a quick fuck with a sense of danger, but what if he isn’t? What if he and the girl truly wanted each other and could no longer hold back? If someone knows what it’s like to want someone out of your reach, it’s you. If someone knows that agonizing desire…

It takes you a little too long to put a finger on the third smell that’s mixing in the room. It’s been weeks—probably months—since you last touched yourself. With your responsibilities on the Crest, you barely have time to sleep and shower, let alone take care of your other, more primal needs. So, you don’t immediately recognize the pungent odor of your own arousal. Once you do, though, you know it won’t relent.

And, even though the feverish fog filling the room more by the second is entering your ears and scrambling your resolve, you still find some moral righteousness in you that judges your desire to pleasure yourself to the thought of the Mandalorian. Because he doesn’t deserve to be disrespected like that. Because he doesn’t think of you like that.

But your hair clings to your damp face and neck, the mineral presses icy against your backside, and beads of sweat and moisture drop from your slippery nipples. And maybe…maybe if you only feel yourself. Not explicitly masturbate, but maybe if you just rub your body a little some of the ache will go away.

You place your hand on your left knee, because it’s only a knee and nothing bad has ever happened from touching one’s knee. You draw circles around it with a finger, then your entire palm. You try to stretch your leg and support it on the table in the middle of the deserted room, but it’s too far back for your foot to reach, so you bend your leg towards you and rest your heel on the bench. By the time your hand slides lower to your calf, gathers the moisture there, and rubs it on your ankle, the raucous sounds outside are almost completely muffled by the ringing of your ears. The red steam grows denser, and you have to open your mouth to breathe in as much oxygen as you can, which is why your exhale sounds like a moan. That’s what you tell yourself.

Hands sliding against your sides and drawing lazy patterns around your ribs, you wonder how he’d touch you. He could be gentle and take his time exploring you, trying to enjoy the rare instance of feeling someone else’s bare skin come to life under his touch. Your hands scoop your breasts and test their weight. Or, perhaps, he’d be in a hurry, drunk on the sensation and unable to control himself at the first caress of your soft curves. It’s difficult to know which one you want more.

Both of your hands sail down aimlessly to your belly and press there. How big is he? You’d like to be able to feel him between your legs afterwards, after he’d go back to being the Mandalorian, as a reminder that he let himself be something else with you. Ten digits land on your thigh and massage there, slowly gliding together up, up, up, until they’re almost where you most want them most. They stop. You’re panting and you swallow hard.

“Maker,” you mumble to yourself. You’re obviously more worked up than before, so you can either stop right there and keep your moral high ground, or…or—

The answer comes from somewhere outside the cave, when you hear the thump of something substantial hitting the door, followed by a low, unequivocal groan. The modulated baritone sends a flood between your legs.

And, just like that, you give up.

You spread your legs and lean your hips forward, pressing your open cunt against the gelid surface; it’s so cold it burns into you. A ragged whimper pushes past your mouth, but your ears don’t register it, since you’ve started rocking back and forth against the black ore, finally throwing wood into the fire that started burning months before. You picture cold beskar instead, thrusting back and forth between your folds to bring you to your release, strong thighs moving lively beneath you.

You’re suffocating. The first time your clit brushes the edge of the bench, you throw your head back, bring your right hand to your breast, and hold on to it for dear life. Your small fingers knead the fat there, but it feels better if you imagine coarse leather doing it instead. Fuck, would he be as quiet and stoic as he always is? Or would he let you hear every moan and grunt? Would he whisper every dirty thing he wants to do to you or would he let you guess? The pace of your back and forth rutting quickens and your guts knot tighter. 

“M-mando…” You try to be quiet; if you can hear him outside he can probably hear you too. You limit yourself to a few tortured sobs, but the blood-red vapor is making it harder to breathe, sweat covers every inch of your skin, and all openings of your body feel horribly empty.

Your scoot back on your seat, open your legs wider, and sink your right index and middle fingers inside your pulsing hole. Two fingers of your left hand go inside your mouth. A loud, long moan of relief pushes through your fingers and lips. You’re too far gone to care.

The digits inside your pussy stretch you open, swirl in circles, move in any way that will cure the awful ache you’ve been fighting for fucking months. What about the helmet, would he leave it on? Blindfold you? Maybe he’d take it off, but get you down on all fours and grab your hair to prevent you from looking back. 

Your eyelids drop. A fat droplet drags down your spine and into the crack of your ass. Your tongue licks your own skin eagerly, tasting their salty sweat and fantasizing about your Mandalorian’s fluids. It’s not enough; it can’t be when you can still hear him outside the door, when all you want is to have him inside you, anywhere inside you.

Your fingers will have to make do, so you curl them and hit something that makes your legs cramp. The five-letter nickname everyone calls him bubbles past your throat in an exhausted gasp. You drag your digits out and smear the thick cum they gathered around your inner lips and walls. Your mind races with endless possibilities: Would he demand you cum or forbid it? How many times would he take you? Where would he touch you? Where would he cum? What does he taste like? Is he patient or demanding? You shut your eyes tightly. Something that feels like a tide is steadily climbing to your chest, making your every muscle rigid.

The fog recedes a little. You’re dizzy with pleasure and every fiber of your body is pulling tighter by the second. Your tongue is still sucking at your fingers—picturing pulsing veins and velvety skin—when you start drawing quick circles around your clit. The stone under your ass grows a little warmer. Drool spills out of your mouth. 

You’re close. You’re so fucking close. Your panting turns erratic, your hips buck forward, one of your leg stretches, and your toes brush the cold material of the table.

“S-stars, Mando…!”

You’re right there, right there, and—

Wait.

Your toes are brushing the chamber’s table. The same table you couldn’t reach earlier. You stop grinding and remove your fingers. New vapor spouts out of the gratings.

The table moves.

Sweat stings your eyes when you try to open them, hesitantly, not really wanting to see what’s in front of you.

You blink a few times and see an opaque silver mirror where your disheveled appearance stares back. One of your hands reaches forward unprompted and brushes the cloudy layer of condensed water on the mirror’s surface. It’s beskar. It’s Mando’s beskar cuisse.

You lift your face and see a T-visor floating in crimson fog, staring down at you. Panic and adrenaline pump in your veins, but you both stay like that for half a second, almost drinking each other in. Waiting.

Until his hand starts moving, so slowly, towards your body.

It’s hard to tell where it’s heading.


	2. Chapter 2

It was only after he bribed the middle-aged Twi’lek clerk—who eyed the credits he set on her desk unimpressed, only to pocket them after an exaggerated sigh—and followed her up a cramped flight of stairs and along the dark, mazelike hallways of the second floor of the healing baths, that the Mandalorian found himself in front of the narrow black door that hid his bounty. Apparently.

The clerk’s molars chewed on a wooden toothpick while she fumbled with the key ring on her hip that rattled metallically with every step. She took her sweet time inspecting key by key and seemed unfazed by the waves of moans and the banging on walls that floated out of closed doors.

“Think he only brought a girl or two with him,” the Twi’lek mumbled as she took out a key from the bunch and held it close to her eyes. After a nod, she inserted it in the keyhole.

Mando scoffed. Only a girl or two. Like the kid hadn’t fucked himself into enough trouble already.

The clerk turned the doorknob, pushed it inwards and headed back to her station. Over her shoulder, she barked at the Mandalorian, “Make it quick.”

Yeah, he intended to.

That was about an hour ago.

The whole place is trashed. Mando gets up from the floor panting and clutching his bruised ribs. Something’s broken for sure. He limps towards his rival, who sits angry and defeated on a bed of splinters that confettied out of cracked staircase balusters when Mando was thrown against them and fell to the ground level. With painful movements, his heavy boot kicks the blaster from his adversary’s reach and picks it up.

It wasn’t his quarry who came after him hard when Mando barged into the little love nest. One moment the poor kid was begging for his orgasm, the next he was ripping his lungs at the sight of the bounty hunter and tugging desperately at the fluffy mock handcuffs that attached him to the bedposts.

The girl who was jacking him off, though. She didn’t even give the hunter a second’s noticed before she lunged towards him, effectively tackling and disarming him. She fought the beskar-clad man fiercely and barefoot in a flimsy pink robe, until he decided that enough was enough and scorched what remained of the balusters to a crisp. And then he pointed the flamethrower at her. The pink figure begrudgingly raised her hands in surrender and slumped on the floor after that.

But her eyes are not exactly waving white flags when Mando throws the strongest pair of shackles he owns on her lap and orders her to cuff herself. She glares up at him and wraps them around her wrists, but not before she spits, “Fuck you. Fuck. You. My father’s gonna kill him.”

Mando tongues a dent that he bit inside his cheek. This was supposed to be the easy job, damnit. He was going to find the quarry, tell him the girl’s family wanted his head, and take him back to the ship with not a scratch on the beskar. Easiest money he’d ever make. He wasn’t counting on said girl being with the bounty, much less her fighting like some trained assassin on spice. Stars, the galaxy’s getting stranger by the day.

Once the girl is done, she shakes her bound wrists in the air to get her captor’s attention. He bends down to yank the cuffs, pulling the feral young woman attached to them on her feet. The effort makes needles pierce his injured muscles. 

Maker, he’d been so sure it’d be some painless in-and-out job that he’d let you come along with him.

His grip on the cuffs falters.

He forgot. He forgot you came to the healing baths with him. Disappeared into the first floor corridors, saying you needed to “relax”. Could you still be here? Somewhere along the rows of steaming pools and massage rooms. Or maybe you hurried outside with the stampede of half-naked women he saw rush away from the healing baths.

No. No, if he had seen you run wet and covered only by the almost see-through cloth like the rest of the clients, he’d remember. He’d definitely remember.

The girl tugs insistently at the handcuffs, testing their strength.

Fuck, he shouldn’t be thinking about you right now. He shouldn’t think about you ever. But. There’s something about imagining you dripping with a tissue-thin textile plastered on your figure that makes him forget the cut in his mouth.

“We fucking love each other.” The prisoner’s squeal snaps him out of his reverie. He drags her to what remains of the stairs. He’ll take the quarry, find you, and leave for good. “We only want each other, we crave for each other.” Yeah, he’ll find you and go back to the Crest. Back to barely speaking to you. Back to silently craving for you. “I’ve never felt anything like the pleasure when he slides into my—”

“Okay, I get it,” the Mandalorian snarls. Maker, he can’t stand Core World snobs. He’ll just take the bounty and find you and go. He’ll just—

“You get it?” The girl stops dead on her tracks at the foot of the stairs. She looks him up and down in indignation. “You get it? You glorified gonk droid. What could scrap metal get about passion?” The cuffs twist away from his grip as their master climbs a couple of charred steps. Before Mando can take her back in his custody, she turns around to face him, chin up, back straight, and towering over him. Too confidently for someone in shackles. She looks down on the visor with eyes so squinted her pupils look like horizontal lines. “What could you get about desire?”

That…that hits a nerve. Plenty, he wants to growl at her, even though she’s obviously just trying to taunt him. He knows plenty about obsessive lust that leaves room for little else. He’s known for a while that the reason he locks himself inside his quarters pulling pathetically at his stiff cock is not just an outlet for pent of stress. He’s come to accept that it is always your image that his psyche sneaks into his mind when his thumb circles the head. As guilty and disgusting as it makes him feel, he’s aware of the fact that every bead of precum belongs to you. That when he bursts into his glove he wants nothing more but to smear it all over your lovely face.

Still. There’s a little voice poking the back of his head and whispering that the girl is right. That someone who’s spent a lifetime with physical and emotional barriers separating him from all stimuli cannot possibly know genuine want. Even worse, maybe you have that idea of him. Maybe you don’t believe there’s flesh beneath the armor either.

His chest shrinks with a drawn out sigh as if he were the one defeated as he grabs the captive by the arm before she can get any further. He’ll just…just take the quarry…and find you—

Almost as a summoning, the syrupy density of your voice plops into his ears in a shape that feels like his name. The pounding against his chest quickens as he turns and ghosts a hand over his blaster. Waiting. Listening.

A high pitched whine drills a hole through one of the more secluded doors in a corner, urgent and upset.

You’re in danger.

The Mandalorian jerks the girl down from the couple of steps that she climbed, a little tougher than he intended. His neck is warm and the biting pain on his sides becomes an afterthought. One swift movement is all it takes to undo one ring of the usually complicated handcuffs. He spots a pillar and forces the prisoner’s arms to hug around it, securing the missing wristlet once her smalls hands meet at the opposite end.

“Hey!” she calls after the hunter, who is already stalking towards the cornered door. “Hey, you can’t leave me here, what—”

Fuck, he shouldn’t have let you come. He should’ve made you stay on the Crest like always. If something happens to you…

The Mandalorian draws his blaster and pushes the dark door open.

Hot, humid steam trails outside to welcome him, clouding his visor. He wipes it poorly with the back of his glove and steps inside. The heavy door falls shut behind him.

At first, all he sees is red. An angry, flaming crimson that dances around the black chamber and immediately draws strings of perspiration from his pores. Slowly, the smog thins and revels a bulky cube in the middle of the room. As well as another, smaller silhouette to its left, from where the restrained mewls are coming from.

Mando sheathes the blaster and steps closer to the figure, carefully, trying to make out what it is. Once he finds himself right between it and the table, he distinguishes the contour of a head. The mist dilutes and the desperate features of your face come to life under the hunter’s fascinated gaze. Your whole face looks like a crumpled piece of paper in an expression that falls just short of pain. Your eyes are wrenched shut and two fingers are shoved into your mouth. When a wide tongue licks them with lazy strokes, Mando feels the cloth over his crotch shrink.

Eyes wander lower, revealing a layer of sweat over your collarbone and…and…

The Mandalorian thinks the fall must have damaged his brain, because he only puts two and two together once he follows a droplet from your sternum to your heaving breasts. It hangs on to one peaked nipple before letting go and sliding down the line of your arm, down, down, down, getting fatter as it absorbs other smaller beads. It curls around your hand and finishes its journey once it falls from a finger. A finger drawing erratic circles around your clit.

If Mando thought it was hot inside the cave before…well, now he’s certain the seething thrill that rushes from his head to his toes and swells in his lower half is going to kill him. The potent punch of his heart is breaking more ribs than the girl did, and he can’t remember what exactly was hurting in his mouth when he runs his own tongue over cracked lips. His cock is draining all the blood and attention from the rest of his body, swelling bigger and bigger.

Of course he fucking knows he should leave. Walk out of the chamber, wait for you to finish, and take care of his own needs in some lonely corner back inside the Razor Crest. But, suddenly, one leg stretches and your foot sweeps over his cuisse.

Fuck, he can tell you’re close. Your thighs shake and the moans get louder and he really needs to get out. His knees start uncramping reluctantly, buying him some time to be able to at least see you come undone. Until you cry, “S-stars, Mando…!”

Did…did he hear you right?

Was that—?

Did you—?

Your fingers halt abruptly and ease out of both of your openings. Disappointment grabs Mando’s heart before panic crushes it. Shit, did you realize he’s here?

He takes a step back.

Wet eyelashes flutter a few times before your eyes open fully. They’re glossy as they look straight ahead. A finger wipes the vapor off the beskar. Your face moves along his body until your attention focuses on his visor and lingers.

The red light prevents him from knowing whether you’re blushing or not, but his cheeks sure as hell light up with shame underneath the helmet. He feels gravity pull his legs with more strength, holding him down in his place and making him face the consequences of his invasion

Still, his glove wraps around your wrist and gently pulls it away.

“I…I’m sorry,” the embarrassed hunter finally croaks out, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I heard you outside and thought…” He shakes his head and sighs. There’s no excuse for this. “I should’ve left. I’m sorry.”

All throughout his excuse of an apology you stare up at him panting. Your pupils are so wide your irises almost disappear behind them. The leftover surprise of being interrupted pleasuring yourself still hangs on your expression, but something in front of you seems to catch your eye, and your features rearrange to confusion. You scoot to the edge of the bench. Your neck cranes up, placing your face directly below his crotch.

The hot breath from your open mouth warms his clothed balls and makes him flinch.

What? Why are you—? Maker, he wishes he knew what the hell you were doing, because he doesn’t think the seams of his pants can hold the way his shaft is pressing insistently against them. Your nose ghosts over his taint and he jumps back.

A pair of hands rests on the plates over his thighs. The remaining spit on your fingers smears on the beskar. You lick your lips until they glisten, and your head tilts to the side as you study his growing erection. Realization irons the puzzled wrinkles on your forehead and a smile pulls your plump lips softly.

“Could you,” you gasp breathlessly, and the Mandalorian knows the answer is yes before you finish, “could you help me?”

Mando…Mando glitches. He’s almost convinced the girl spiced him and his subconscious is borrowing from his archive of filthy fantasies of you to produce the most obscene hallucination possible. Regardless, reality or illusion, you sit soaked and perfectly bare with your face half-wedged under his crotch. Waiting for an answer.

“I, uh. Um.” He gulps. “Uh, h-help you?”

“Uh-huh,” you purr. One hand resting on his cuisse trails up to palm the tent forming in his pants. Mando hisses. You smile. “Help me pick up where I left off.” Your other hand goes back to its place between your legs.

Staring straight into the lines of his visor, you draw languid circles around your bud.

The helmet feels incredibly heavier on his spine. Your finger pushes into your clit and you gasp.

This isn’t real. The hypnotic red vapor fogs his vision and senses with a dreamlike dimness. You look ethereal behind it, like you’ll turn to steam as soon as he reaches out. He’s going to open his eyes in the cockpit of the Crest hard and alone, like always. He’s going to climb down to the hull and see you and try his best to avoid you. He’s going to wake up from the best dream he’s ever had; from the gorgeous curves of your body open and ready for him.

But. But you’re still here. Delusion or not, you’re still dipping your fingers inside your cunt, inviting him to partake. To prove himself human underneath his layers of barriers. And who can blame him, if he indulges in the one thing he’s wanted for months. Even if he will wake up from this.

Without a second thought, Mando rips both gloves off his hands and throws them into the mist enveloping your bodies. Your sweet smile widens when he wraps his hands around your shoulders and massages the moist flesh. You answer by giving his bulge a faint squeeze. But the Mandalorian has little patience for teasing, and he’s not sure when exactly he’s going to be ripped from this dream. 

“Wait,” the modulated voice orders. “Stand up. Please.” You obey, grabbing him for support to avoid falling on the slippery floor. His palms land on your waist, spreading the sweat there. Stars, you feel wonderful.

“Do you want to, uh…” Somehow, he still can’t bring himself ask, so he pulls you closer, so that his erection presses against your belly.

Biting your lip, you look up at him and nod eagerly. Small fingers press between your bodies to unbutton his pants and explore inside. You hum when you feel how hard he already is for you and scoop his throbbing cock out of its prison. “Please.”

Mando grabs your hips and spins you until you’re between him and the table. He pushes you against its side. The fronts of your thighs hit the black surface and you hiss at the contact, but he barely hears you.

He feels buckets of perspiration pouring down his back and chest, hot and heavy wool sticks to his skin, and there’s barely any breathable air slipping below the helmet anymore. But there’s only you. There’s only you and your shifting shoulder blades and the elegant curve of your spine and your ass, all tinged the color of blood and soaked with the liquified version of the mysterious substance floating around in the air. The pains that overwhelmed his body are long forgotten. 

The fingers of his right hand spread apart from each other and snake up your back so they can feel your silky skin under his.

You shudder.

Fuck, is this was the girl outside was talking about? Right now, tense and painfully hard and high on the sensation of your soft, sweaty skin against his calloused hands, he feels just as foolish as his quarry. Just as likely to beg for anything you’re willing to offer.

Rough fingers push wet strings of hair to the side and grab your neck. He likes how thin it is around his large palm. How the tips of his fingers almost meet when they circle you. He pushes it down.

When your tits brush the surface you flinch and pull back.

“It—it’s c-cold,” you stutter as you try to look over your shoulder at him, but the grip on your neck is steel-strong and he can’t bring himself to soften it. “It’s freezing, Mando.”

Normally, he’d let go. Normally, he’d drop his hand immediately and apologize meekly. Normally, he would’ve walked away the second he caught you pleasuring yourself and would’ve pathetically gotten himself off to your image back in the Crest, like he’s done so many times, and would’ve never brought it up again.

But here, he has you right where he’s wanted you for months. Right now, he needs to prove to himself and to you that there’s hot red blood running through his veins. That below beskar and wool, he desires just like everyone else. Even more.

Especially when it comes to you.

So he doesn’t let go.

With a stronger grip, he forces you down until your chest is flush against the icy table and keeps you still.

“Fuck,” you nearly sob.

The Mandalorian steps closer to you and flattens the backs of your legs and ass with his cuisses. You whimper at the contact like you did with the table, but the cries turn to moans when he starts rubbing his hard cock against the curve of your ass.

Every nerve in his body tenses like a stretched rubber band at the sensation. Your ass is so fucking drenched he doesn’t even need to spit on it to allow his rock-solid cock to glide against you. Your hips push back and you try to meet his movements, but his thighs just crush you closer to the side of the table. 

He won’t look down. He won’t—he can’t, or he’ll lose it right there. He’s certain he’ll cum right then and there if he so much as peeks at what his doing to you. Or worse, he’ll wake up.

He looks down.

It takes every scrap of his self-control not to spill his cum all over your back at the visual. Your glistening body is folded over the table. Your arms hang next to your legs. Your nails scratch the dark rock desperately. The turbid red steam makes you blurry, like an apparition. As surreal as the mental images he conjures of you sometimes, when the ship is empty and he chases his relief inside the hard clutch of his fist. Only now, the long, husky moans you’re letting him hear are as clear as daylight, the scent of sex and sweat radiating off both of you sticks to his nostrils, and the way your body writhes against his are making him harder and more frantic by the second.

This isn’t a dream. It’s you and he has you all to himself.

He can’t wait any longer.

Mando releases your neck and brings both hands down to your ass. He massages and kneads the plump meat there. His teeth grit together to stop a needy groan from pushing past them. Tough fingers spread your cheeks and hold them open. You turn your face to the side.

“Please,” you suddenly spit out, your back curling and flattening almost involuntarily, “oh, fucking stars, Mando, just—just put it inside, just pl—”

The heat of his cock teasing your folds cuts you off. The Mandalorian inhales what little oxygen he can get and sheathes himself inside you in one strong movement. You cry out and he groans like nobody can hear either of you.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, why are you so tight? You’re—you’re—

“So wet,” he hears himself slur. The red haze of the room spins around him. He sounds drunk. “Why—who could be this fu-fucking tight and b-beautiful—I—” Mando manages to swallow the last few words. Now is not time for them. Instead, he pulls back. His cock eases outside almost completely, leaving only the head inside. Then he buries himself again, slowly, grinding into you and letting you feel how every vein of his shaft pulses against your slick walls. He works up a paused pace as he spreads your cheeks further apart and dips his helmet to see how he’s stretching you.

Your arms lift to your sides to clutch the opposite end of the surface. You’re making the deepest, most arousing sounds he’s ever heard. You take him with a throaty mmm or a trembling ahhh that make his chest collapse with embarrassing gasps that he’s trying so hard to suppress. But your boiling pussy clenches tighter and he can’t help choking on the heated vapor that dances under the helmet and drips on his facial hair. 

“It’s you—ngh,” you finally answer. “I think of you al—always.” His hips falter at the sound of your voice. “I g-get so wet just im—magining what you—˝ Almost as a reflex, he pushes roughly into you and you cut yourself off with a high whimper.

You can’t finish your sentence. You don’t have to. What you said is enough to scramble Mando’s brains like eggs and flick a switch inside him he didn’t know was there.

Maker, he shouldn’t go faster. He shouldn’t overwhelm you. What if he hurts you? But your confession seems to thicken the mist that’s clouding his visor and restraint. Stars, you think about him just like he thinks of you. Maybe there were nights you would both touch yourselves simultaneously to the thought of each other in your separate quarters. What would you imagine? How long has it been going on?

He doesn’t remember releasing your ass nor burying his fingers into your dripping hair. He didn’t even realize how faster and more brutal his thrusts got all of a sudden until he hears how you trade your long, vibrating moans for short mewls that sound like his cock is puncturing them out of you.

And he should stop and he should ask you what you want and he should apologize for being rough and he should be doing so many things that he just can’t fucking bring himself to do when he feels you squeezing around him like you want him to be that much of a fucking savage with you. So he picks up the pace.

Through the haze, though, he manages to glue a couple of broken words together. “Th-this o-okay? Y-you—fuck—it—it fee-l good?” He sounds like he doesn’t even know fucking Basic, but you’re apparently fluent in whatever primitive language he just spoke, because you nod fervently, your cheek still pressed to the cold rock.

Your mouth gapes like it’s trying to suck the words you need from the fog around you and drool spills from your pretty lips. You only manage to breathe out, “Harder.”

Harder he goes, tangling the fist on your hair more tensely until it pulls your neck up. His other hand shoves your thighs and digs around your folds until he finds a hard nub that he rubs up and down quickly. The feeling makes you clamp down so compactly around his swollen shaft that he has to put his back into his thrusts to be able to push in. Still, he manages to slide inside with the help of your arousal and his precum and the sweat of your bodies and whatever the fuck is vaporized in the room. Every thrust shoves your whole body forwards and makes the edge of the table dig more violently into your hips. But you’re not complaining. Your irises are rolled as back as they’ll go into your skull and your companion is not sure you can even hear yourself moaning for him anymore.

Mando is going to black out. He’s sure he’s going to pass the fuck out. He can’t breathe and you’re repeating his name like a prayer and he can tell you’re close and his cock is just begging for release. A cooler breeze brushes the edge of the helmet. He keeps opening you like it’s the last thing he’ll do.

His ears ring with light metallic clinks and you’re muttering incomprehensible gibberish and he clenches his jaw when he makes out the words “I” and “cum” and he can’t believe his fucking luck and his balls pull up to announce that he’s also almost there and—

“I thought I said,” a sudden, chastising voice cuts the dense steam like it’s butter, “to make it quick.”

You both jump at the interruption. Mando’s heart and movements halt as adrenaline shoots into his blood and he looks around the brume for the intruder.

The Twi’lek clerk stands near the door, squinting to make out what exactly is going on in the steaming room. You both stare at her stupidly—Mando still buried deep inside you—as she swats the fog like a swarm of flies she can scare away with her palm.

Finally, the cloud dissipates enough for her eyes to focus on the erotic sight before her.

She doesn’t even look surprised. She simply chews on her soggy toothpick annoyed and rolls her eyes, like this is just another day at work for her.

“We literally rent rooms for that,” she grouses exasperated while pointing a long finger to the roof like she’s talking to two idiots, “upstairs.”


End file.
